


Takeoff Sequence

by Chokopoppo



Category: Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Begging, Enthusiastic Consent, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Size Difference, Tactile Sexual Interfacing, Transformers Plug and Play Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 07:27:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23967616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chokopoppo/pseuds/Chokopoppo
Summary: Sometimes, Team Prime’s ship doesn’t respond the way it’s supposed to during liftoff, and often, it doesn’t respond at all. But there’s no cause for alarm; Ratchet knows how to fix the issue. He’ll just go have a talk with the engine.
Relationships: Omega Supreme/Ratchet (Transformers)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 69
Collections: Kinks in the Wires (A free 18+ Transformers weird kinks fanzine)





	Takeoff Sequence

**Author's Note:**

> Hooray, I can finally post this! If you've been wondering what I've been doing with all my free time, mostly packing and stressing about quarantine, but also sometimes this!
> 
> I'm so thrilled to have been a part of the Kinks In The Wires zine, spearheaded by Dez and Nev, who are dear friends and extremely cool people. If you're not reading their work, you should! And if you haven't checked out all the rest of the work in the zine--what are you waiting for? It's right here on AO3! 
> 
> Without further ado: some Nasty.

It’s the first space bridge they’ve wrapped up on under their new commander. Figures, then, that the ship won’t take off. They’re on the ground, no problem; the vidscreen works just fine for the young Prime to make his ‘right on schedule’ call to HQ; the young bots have finally been corralled into putting on their safety harnesses, despite their complaints; and they’re stuck.

“Scrap,” Ratchet says, after he repeats his picture-perfect takeoff sequence for the third time, “the engine’s gonna need an overhaul.”

Bumblebee makes a snort of derision. “Seriously?” He scoffs. “I put on my harness for this! Are you  _ sure  _ you did the takeoff sequence properly?”

“I have an idea,” Ratchet snaps back, “how about you get  _ out  _ of that harness and show me how  _ you  _ think I  _ should  _ be doing it?”

“Jeez, I was just trying to help,” Bumblebee backtracks quickly, grumbling with embarrassment, “you don’t have to yell. Anyway, nobody else knows how to pilot something this old. Why couldn’t you have sold it for scrap and gotten something that works?”

Ratchet bristles. “He works  _ just fine,”  _ he snaps, “just needs a nudge or two now and then.” He starts unhooking his own harness, muttering quietly, and then, with a quick glance to his commanding officer, “permission to go below?”

“Uh, sure, Ratchet,” Optimus says. “You—you  _ will  _ be able to fix it, right? Not that I’m doubting your abilities as a mechanic! It’s just—it  _ is  _ an old craft, and if it won’t fly, it’s important to save some juice for a rescue beacon if we need one—“

“Quit being so dramatic,” Ratchet says, already making his way for the door. “It’ll take an hour, tops. I do this all the time. Just do me a favor and keep an eye on the young bots—I don’t need anyone following me down there.”

It’s not a long walk down to the engine room if you know your way, and Ratchet does, so he takes a few shortcuts out of habit, like he’s trying to shake a tail. New teams are always denta-grinding  _ learning experiences,  _ an exercise in frustration at best and a prelude to a court marshall at worst. He tries not to hold their absence of discipline against them, particularly their new Prime; they’re young, and reckless, and they haven’t seen the damage that insubordination can wreak on a disorganized team.

On his helm, the jagged edge of his war wound tingles and aches.

The heart of the engine room is a massive spherical machine, suspended by long pipes from the ceiling and protected by a thick EM field of savage static electricity, the kind of voltage that throws even a hybrid bot straight offline. It’s fervent and searching, and Ratchet can’t go near it. Instead, he locates the nearest fuse station and starts opening boxes, looking for a short circuit or fried wires.

“This isn’t like you,” he says, glancing over his shoulder at the orb in the center of the room, “I’m the one who’s supposed to be falling apart. You should’ve had another decacycle of charge built up.”

The static field shifts, barely perceptible, and Ratchet feels the blank electricity point itself into an intention. His own field flickers as the air licks with cool emotion—a wash of confusion, guilt, humiliation. Ratchet lowers his head to protect himself from the dissonant tones of self-flagellation.

“It’s not you,” he says, voice low and soothing, “that is, it isn’t your fault. I should have recalibrated your data storage ages ago.”

He tries to release tranquility into the field around him, but the guilt is powerful and suffocating. There’s no amount of charge he could produce that would match the smallest passive feelings of Omega Supreme’s sleeping mind.

“What’s  _ wrong, _ old friend,” he mutters, almost to himself, and strokes one of the control panels as soothingly as he can manage. “Tell me what’s wrong. Let me fix it.”

The guilt shifts around him, sparking—then, it heats in a tank-churning wave into desire and giddy want. Ratchet’s processor spins with it.

Across the room, the panel of another fuse box blows off its hinges, like aluminum under pressure. It sizzles on the floor, pink with heat. The fuses inside the box are black as anything. No sign of intense heating on the other side, even on his scanner.

Well, then.

It hasn’t been that long, is the first thing Ratchet thinks, as he makes his circuitous journey around the core of the ship towards the inviting panel. Omega Supreme shouldn’t  _ need _ an overhaul—if the EM field at the center of the room is any indication, he’s producing charge just fine on his own. Which means—which means he remembers the last time they did this. Which means he’s starting to… 

Ratchet doesn’t let himself think the words  _ wake up, _ but his field flares around him with euphoria all the same. He couldn’t  _ exactly  _ celebrate with his crew, could he? He’s still under specific orders to keep Omega Supreme a secret from high command, still in this pathetic dead-end garbage disposal assignment. Dealing with the stupid young bots pushing him around, questioning his authority or intruding on his personal time to ‘make friends’ and ask about what the war was ‘really like’, if those vidreels were all slagheap propaganda, if he’d like to ‘get lunch sometime’.

Well. Ultra Magnus had  _ offered  _ him a way out, a prestigious position at Pharma’s hospital. Recognition for his service, he’d said, without the public accolades they couldn’t give him, of course, not at this time. He didn’t  _ have  _ to stay and maintain the old ship, he’d said. No one would blame him, he said, for handing this burdensome stewardship off to someone else. Someone less informed, someone who would tend to the body of his friend like some common ship, hacking at him with wrenches when his processor hiccuped or struggled, and shipping off unusable parts to replace them with dumb, sub-sentient tech until there was nothing left of the real Omega Supreme.

It hadn’t been much of a choice.

The field suffocating him is hot and excited, and Ratchet can feel his own engine revving to keep up as he slides his chassis open. Up close, he can see that the box Omega blew open isn’t a fuse box at all, but the central internal/external interface system for medium data transfers. Tentatively, Ratchet fumbles for his own transfer cable, unwinding it from its place wrapped around his spark, feeling the residual heat on it against his fingers. There are other ways to get information into Omega’s processor, but a diagnostic scan is different. He needs to be seeing the whole picture—no easy task with a bot as big as he is.

Ratchet looks at the panel on the floor, sizzling with heat. Then, he chooses one of the aux ports at random, runs a digit along the inside of it to make sure it’s clear of dust and dirt, and jacks in. As his consciousness starts to race away from his processor, sucked down the path towards the digital space, he braces himself against the wall with his arms. Hey, he’s lost the connection before by tipping over backwards and accidentally unplugging before.

It’s dangerous, leaving your body like this. Most mechs wouldn’t do it, not for basic maintenance. That’s why he can’t trust anyone else with this ship. They wouldn’t do it right, wouldn’t be thorough.

_ I’m glad you came. _

Ratchet pries his optics open, squinting against the harsh vectors of the grid. There’s no figure of Omega in the space with him. He can’t help but feel a little disappointed.

“Of course I came,” he says aloud, “you know I always do.”

_ There’s no guarantees in this world. You taught me that. _

Ratchet opens his mouth to say something witty, then closes it. “You’re right,” he admits. And then, “did you ignore the takeoff sequence?”

The grid hesitates, rolls up in a wave. It’s Omega’s field, Ratchet knows, trying to communicate through emotion. Well, too bad. That tactic doesn’t work in here—the world warps, but there’s no suffocating pressure of charge. His own safeguards, against his own field, protect Ratchet too.

_ I saw you. I saw you and then I—didn’t see you. I don’t know where you are when you aren’t here. _

“But you knew I was initiating the takeoff sequence?” Ratchet asks. “You… felt that, somehow. You knew it was me. Can you feel me, when I’m out there?” His spark catches in his chassis, too hopeful to pulse against its container. “Do you hear me, when I talk to you? Can you tell when it’s me?”  _ Are you awake? Are you waking up? _

_ I can hear the sound of your voice,  _ Omega’s voice/thoughts reply. It’s taking on tone, now—no longer information and ideas that simply appear in Ratchet’s processor as Omega transmits them, but his voice, his intonation. He’s starting to get his pedes under himself as he accepts Ratchet as an external attachment.  _ But I can’t hear what you’re saying. I feel all sorts of things out there, distant touches, distant voices. But I always know when it’s you.  _ There’s a throb, and Ratchet realizes the space he’s in is starting to heat.  _ You’re always so gentle. _

Ratchet flushes. Inside him, he can feel his spark churn in delight, and hushes it quickly. “My patients would disagree,” he mutters. “The new crew doesn’t think so much of my berthside manner, either.”

_ These are new recruits, aren’t they? I don’t like them much. Their servos are rough and their fields are bitter.  _ There’s a sighing noise—a sighing feeling—and Ratchet is suddenly aware of a datapack, full of rough and ready tactile code, pushing through their connection. He gasps, his internals fizzling with an explosion of empty touch, pistons waking up, looking for information they won’t find.  _ Ratchet, stay here with me. _

Ratchet’s optics flutter as another stunning wave of charge fizzles through him. He wants to sprawl out backwards, vulnerable as anything in root mode, and let Omega Supreme overwhelm him. Instead, he sucks in vents to try and steady himself. “You can’t just,” he gasps, voice wavering more than he’d admit, “ignore takeoff sequence because you don’t like the crew. We’re stranded on an unfamiliar planet—you have to let us go to our next assignment.”

_ You’re lovely, _ Omega says/thinks/feels. And then, more sourly,  _ you spend too much time with them. _

Another fat block of coding forces its way into Ratchet, this one heady with desire and savage want. He cries out with dumb pleasure as it knocks him backwards, blinding him in a wave of ecstasy that burns out from spark to limbtip.

_ When you weren’t on assignment, you were with me all the time. I felt your servos on my panels and heard you speaking in my hull. Now you only touch me when I don’t work properly, and you never say my name. _

Ratchet is dizzy, trying to catch himself on something, his optics unable to focus. He’s only marginally aware of the fact that he’s floating, spinning gently in the space. After a few moments, he gives up and shuts his optics completely. “We’re under strict orders, remember?” He asks. “Until you’re recovered enough to wake up on your own, it’s too dangerous for anyone to know who you are.” He reaches a hand out, desperate to make contact with  _ something,  _ and feels strong, flexible protometal raise up to bump against him. Another empty sensation, just more code--if he opened his optics, he knows there would be nothing there. “You think it doesn’t hurt me? To pilot you like some common ship? To speak to you when I know you can’t even hear me?”

_ Ratchet… _

“I’m all alone out there,” he chokes out, “they think I’m some crazy outdated model with more mileage than value! And I put up with it! Because you’re  _ not  _ some common ship. You’re my  _ friend.” _ He summons his diagnostics file, a prying datapack of queries ready to rifle through Omega’s processor, and prepares to send it through. “I’m going to wait for you, no matter where you go or how long it takes.”

_ I didn’t mean that,  _ Omega thinks/feels, the cyberspace fluttering through frequencies of shame/gratitude/love/embarrassment/desire/shame/desire,  _ I know what you’re giving up for me. But the more awake I am, the more selfish I feel. The more I know you’re there when I can’t reach for you. _

Ratchet thinks about that, his own field mingling with Omega’s all around him. He reaches out to it, his own field caressing the tense static air, holding it, relaxing it. As it relaxes, he releases a pulse of data, an assertive request. Open.

_ Oh— _

The field rumbles around him, contracts in pleasure, crushes down around him as it surges back into his spark—

Ratchet’s in the superheated engine room, joints creaking, leaning against the wall. The lights blow out, but it’s barely noticeable in the wake of the star-bright surge of energy around the engine’s field. He’s—

“Is that what you want?” He asks, back in the gridspace. A shudder, a sigh. Pleasure from Omega Supreme’s processor is feedbacking into his own chassis, superheating his spark. “All that guilt, and you’re just horny?”

_ Please, _ he begs,  _ I need to feel you. _

Painstakingly, Ratchet pulls code from his readout—the desire in his own field—strips specific details in the HRF code, and blows it straight into Omega’s ports. There’s another flutter, a squeeze, and then—

Ratchet feels code struggle past him, desperately forming itself into one braid link. He shuts his optics this time. Not like he thinks it’ll help.

The data is coded for his processor and it hits him like an atmosphere-breaking takeoff. His aches and pains are wiped out of him like they never existed at all, pistons juiced, engine roaring like a supercharged battery. He’s opened up and enveloped. If he screams with it, the sound is lost to him—his audials are offlined. 

_ Close, _ the field around him moans, charging against his plating as he shakes.

_ It’ll take more than that, _ Ratchet thinks back, a smile stealing over his face.  _ Just how old do you think I am?  _ He pulls up his diagnostics, stats and readouts appearing around him in the grid.  _ Looks like your systems are running fine,  _ he tuts,  _ with something like this, we can either overhaul you or overload you. Which should we try first? _

_ Ratchet—I can’t— _

_ Ask me for it,  _ he says. _ Better yet, beg me for it. _

_ Mrrh,  _ Omega thinks.  _ Don’t be in--such a rush-- _

_ Overload it is, _ Ratchet thinks.  _ Come on, gorgeous, show me that big database of yours. Let me get my fingers in there. _

_ I can feel your servos on my plugs,  _ Omega thinks/realizes,  _ you’re touching me, the real me, out there…  _

_ I’m plugged into you,  _ Ratchet assures him,  _ we’re locked into each other. _

There’s fritz--something fuzzy in the cyberspace of Omega’s processor, a ripple in the grid--and there, out of nothing, is Omega’s form, his face meters from Ratchet. It’s easy to forget just how  _ big  _ he is. Ratchet looks  _ up,  _ looks him in the optic, and swallows.

_ I’ve been working on some new code for you,  _ Ratchet says, swallowing his swagger of moments before as he feels gargantuan hands come up to rest around him.  _ You know I can’t force you. You have to let me in. _

Omega peers down at him. His face is hazy and pleased, his optics running over Ratchet’s form. One of his fingers, the size of Ratchet’s whole torso, reaches forward to stroke his chassis.  _ I don’t have to  _ let  _ anyone into my processor,  _ he thinks,  _ I was designed to take orders and to obey. I was designed to be programmed. To take code that is given to me. _

Ratchet works his jaw. “I didn’t build you,” he says, “I didn’t program you. Not then, not now. I won’t give you anything you don’t want. That you don’t ask for.”

_ You want me to beg? _

“I need you to want it,” he says. “I need you to tell me you want it.”

Omega rumbles, his form flickering in and out of existence. “Give it to me,” he growls, “now.”

It’s a good piece of code, all told. Targets the neural cortex that creates those physical tingles of pure aesthetic pleasure and squeezes it like a sweet peach. All the coding that fascinates a bot on high art and fine music and the bittersweet aftertaste of expensive engex running in rivulets of ecstasy down his fingers. And, of course, the  _ heat,  _ the way a naked form looks with moonlight glinting off its edges, the touch of an audial, the crescendo of an overture, the form of a wave crashing against sand, the tender wires of the shoulder being bitten into, bruising kisses, open mouths.

It makes it overwhelming. Unbearable. Electric. As soon as Ratchet throws it over Omega, he feels it feedbacking through his field. A slow, heady build, pleasure and wonder and desire, the satisfaction of  _ wanting _ , the sensation of touch, the feeling of being treasured, well-used, touched, roughed up, well-fucked out--lightning, a hundred thousand volts right to the spark, flaring up in the purity of divine overload.

It explodes, throws him back, the space swirling and smashing into pieces--

With a snap of power, Ratchet unplugs and slumps his whole body against the exposed panel in Omega Supreme’s engine room, mouth open, venting hard. He needs something to cool his skin, but all around him, the metal of the room burns to the touch and the radiant heat is overwhelming him.

His processor spins. With a grunt of effort, he manages to push himself away from the wall and stumbles a few steps away. The charge in Omega’s field is enthralling—dizzying—he needs to get out of the engine room, or he’ll blow a fuse himself.

“That should do you for a little while,” he mutters, forcing himself to put one pede in front of the other. His pistons are so charged up he can barely stand it, but once he gets out of this field, it’ll be easier to cool down. He just needs to get there… 

The field rolls over his shoulders, lazy and sated, and Ratchet pauses for a moment too long.

Overload, it tells him, and he can feel servos gripping at him, playing with him, thrusting into his seams.

“Oh, fuck,” he stammers, and his knees buckle—he falls to the ground, legs apart, panting, the charge shoving its way into his intake like a thumb. “I can’t—if you don’t stop, I won’t—be able to hold onto it—“

Overload.

It burns through his cables, peaks in his engine, shorts out his nonessentials—blinds him, deafens him, rolls through him like white hot energy—

And then his optics are coming back online, and he’s on the floor of the engine room, sprawled out like a drunkard. The engine is running normally. When he goes to reattach the blown panel, the field around Omega’s processor is pulled back, resigned and tame.

With a pleasantly slimy feeling, Ratchet makes his way back up to the command deck, running a servo along the wall the whole way back, only to find the deck abandoned. He comms their commander.

_ “Oh good, you’re done,”  _ Optimus says, over the little communicator on his wrist,  _ “are we set to go? I got the bots out, figured they’d just be a pain to have around if it was going to, uh, take a while.” _

_ “Is he back?”  _ Bumblebee says, shrill voice piercing through the communicator even from behind Optimus’ shoulder.  _ “Geez. He sounds like he just took a nap!” _

“My chronometer might be broken, but my hearing works just fine,” Ratchet grumbles. “Get back aboard, and let’s go. I want to get off this planet.”

He closes his line of communication without another word. Soundlessly, he presses both his servos into the command console and waits to feel the vibration of the engine beneath them.


End file.
